Desperation
by JGRhodes
Summary: Mycroft is trapped in an unhappy, emotionally abusive marriage. He stays because he love her. She stays to torture him. Anthea witnesses his wife tearing him down. Mythea.


AN: WARNING FOR EMOTIONAL ABUSE/MANIPULATION AND/OR FOOD SHAMING.

Isabelle scoffs at him from across the dinner table. He knew, through years of experience, to ignore her. She was in one of her moods today. Nothing he said or did would appease her, so it was best to keep his head down and disappear into his office as quickly as possible.

He raises his dinner for to his mouth and she lets out a dissatisfied grunt. He makes the mistake of glancing in her general direction. "For God's sake, haven't you had enough?"

Setting the fork down softly, he dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and rises from his chair. "I have work to do," he says, his whole mind screaming _Retreat! Retreat!_

"I just bet you do," she sneers at him. "Been spending a lot of time with Anthea, have you?"

He lets his eyes slip closed and presses his mouth together. It was an old taunt, to be sure, but it still hurt. He'd never been anything but faithful. "She's been in Budapest. You know that."

"Oh, I'm sure. But next time you're at the office, try to do a bit more work and stick to fucking your PA on the weekends. You might get more work done that way," she tosses her napkin down and shoves her chair back.

He watches her climb the stairs and only exhales when he hears the bedroom door slam. Retreating to his office he sits down behind the large mahogany desk and tries to get some work done. He can't. He calm center is rattled.

Instead he stares at the lone photograph on his desk. He and his young bride are smiling brightly into the camera, she has flowers in her hair, and he has his father's pocket watch tucked away in his trousers, knowing the only sadness on that wonderful day was that Basil Holmes was not alive to see it.

He turns the photograph face down and pours himself a brandy. Swallowing the contents of his glass he sets it on the corner of his desk and makes his way upstairs. He reaches the second landing and stops. The nursery door is open.

Slowly he makes his way to the door and looks inside. The room hasn't changed over the years. The crib still sits against the wall, a mobile of dancing bears holding umbrellas dangling above it. The changing station remains unused, and the walls are still the same shade of yellow, though the color doesn't seem nearly as happy to him now. The plastic covers that had been protecting it all were tossed haphazardly to the floor.

He once tried to get rid of it all. Isabelle had had a meltdown.

And there she sits, in the rocking chair, staring off into the darkness. "Bell?" he offers softly. "What are you doing?"

She whips her head round to look at him. "Imagining the life I would have had if I hadn't been stupid enough to marry you."

He blanches.

"I expect I could have had two, maybe three children by now. But no. You can control the Commonwealth, but you can't get a girl pregnant," she stops rocking and glares at him. "A halfcocked teenage boy could have done a better job of it than you."

"That isn't fair. We don't know –

She hurls a tiny glass figurine at him. "Shut up! Just shut up!" She shoved past him and takes off down the hall.

He follows, like he always has, like he always will. He finds her sitting at her vanity. She wrenches her wedding ring off her finger, throws it haphazardly into her jewelry box, and begins slathering lotion on her hands.

Kneeling down next to her he places a hand on her knee and tries to look in her eyes. She studiously ignored him. Desperation bubbles up from his heart. He'd loved this woman since he was ten years old. He'd make her happy. He'd find a way. "What do you want from me? Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Whatever it is, no matter how much it costs me. You want a child? We'll try invitro. We'll find a surrogate. I'll buy us a child if I have to. Just…tell me what to do and I'll do it. But don't shut me out."

She laughs in his face.

Seizing his chin with her hands she turns him towards the mirror. "Look at you, Mycroft. You think I want to have sex with you? You're disgusting. You're _old_. You haven't been the proper weight in years. You think I want you on top of me?"

He pulls away, chest caving in from the blow her words have dealt him, feeling like the stupidest man in the world. She always knew right where to hit him. "Why do you do this to me, Bell?" he sounded desperate and he knew it.

She looks down her nose at him. "Don't beg. You look like a dog."

He watches her sweep across the room and yank the covers back on the bed. "I don't want you anywhere near me. Sleep in the guest room tonight. Or a hotel. I don't care. Take that little twit with you, though."

He composes himself and arranges his features into a mask of quiet seriousness before turning around. Anthea stands in the open doorway, her suitcase in one hand, looking stricken. "Anthea. I see you're back from Budapest. Do wait in my office, will you?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

He watches her retreating form and is sure she's out of earshot before he speaks. "That was unnecessary," he says.

Isabelle scoffs and turns out the bedside lamp, shrouding them in darkness. "Shut the door on your way out," she says.

Back downstairs again he steels himself with a deep breath before entering his office. Anthea is a sight for sore eyes, even if she looks a little worse for the wear. She jumps from her chair at the sight of him.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I should have made my presence known the moment I touched down the I couldn't get a signal with the storm and –

He cuts her off. "What did you find out in Budapest?"

She looks thrown, but takes it in stride. "Ah, everyone who knew Sebastian Moran is dead or missing, sir."

He sighs. "I thought so. Very well. I want you in Moscow next. Our intelligence indicates –

"Sir?"

He looks up from her report. "Yes?"

"I don't understand. Why do you let her treat you like that?"

He sends her a scathing look. "That is none of your business."

She stands and comes around the desk. Standing next to him she looks him in the eye. "My business is what I make it," she says. "And right now my business is knowing why the most powerful man in England allows himself to be emotionally abused and manipulated!"

"You're dancing on very thin ice," his voice is low and deadly. "Have a care how you speak to me."

"You've always told me how much you value my honesty and my opinion. Well now I'm going to give it to you. Do with it what you will. I honestly think you deserve better."

Mycroft throws his head back and laughs. "Ah. Yes. And will you be volunteering yourself for that job? I am a man past his prime, my dear. I do not look to hope." He tucks her report away in his desk.

"I would."

He looks up. "I beg your pardon?"

"I would," she says. "I've…always wanted to. It's one of the reasons I took this job in the first place. Everyone tried to warn me off, said you were the worst to work for, but I didn't care. And then I found out you were married and I thought 'Well done, Verity. You've fallen for a married man. Now you're stuck working for him with no hope.' I just. I can't imagine you this unhappy. After everything you've done for this country you deserve at least to be happy."

"Sometimes we don't get what we deserve."

She kisses him then. It's not…romantic at all. In fact it's rather clumsy and awkward with him sitting and her standing but her mouth tastes so sweet against his and Lord it's been so long since anyone kissed him like that. Isabelle certainly didn't.

Isabelle.

He breaks the kiss. "I can't," he says. "She already thinks we're having an affair. I don't want her to be right."

She nods. "I understand. I'll…I'll see myself out. Goodnight, sir."

She turns and begins to walk away. His heart leaps painfully. He so missed the feeling of being wanted. He missed letting someone in, knowing they wouldn't hurt him. Reaching out he grabs her hand and yanks her back into his lap. He kisses her this time, murmuring her name against her lips like a prayer. "Verity, Verity, Verity," he says. "I'll fix this. All of it. Don't go. Please don't go. Verity. Verity. Verity."

* * *

"No, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not appropriate, that's why."

"Think about who we're dealing with, John."

"Oh. Right. Still. It's a bit early, don't you think?"

"Nonsense. It's perfect."

"Sherlock, I don't think a Chemistry Set is a proper gift. It's a baby shower. Are you listening to me? Sherlock? Sherlock!"


End file.
